


NOT MY JOB

by WritLarge



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:56:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritLarge/pseuds/WritLarge
Summary: From the writing-prompt-s tumblr: “This is not my job! This is the exact opposite of my job!” screamed the grim reaper as the human went into labour.





	

“Don’t just stand there!” 

“THIS IS NOT MY JOB.” Death attempted not to Loom. In fact, he would very much have liked to have shrunk away, had he not known the wrath that would descend on him later if he did. “THIS IS THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF -” 

The furious glare that the comment inspired stopped him mid-sentence and spurred him to seriously reevaluate the benefits of fleeing, but it was too late. Her fist had already closed around the fabric of his robe pulling suddenly as another contraction hit.

From a high perch on the other side of the room came an entirely unnecessary, “SQUEAK.”

Yes, yes. It hardly needed pointing out that this was far from the first time he’d been called to a birth. These things could easily go either way. But this had nothing to do with the Duty. He’d checked her hourglass. Several times in the past hour actually.

“Do something!”

“I AM NOT EQUIPPED-”

“GRANDFATHER.”

Death raised a hand instinctively, to do what he didn’t know, this was very much not-his-wheelhouse. Perhaps if he-

The door eased open, revealing a distraught looking young man (for a given value of man, in any case). Susan didn’t even need to look to know he was there.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” she demanded.

“More When than-”

“DON’T ARGUE SEMANTICS WITH- Aaaargh!” Death was yanked forward again as Susan gritted her way through the pain.

“How long has she been like this?” Lobsang asked, with the wide-eyes of someone who has realized how utterly doomed he was for choosing now, of all times, to be late.

Still slightly hunched over, Death glared at his sort-of, maybe, Susan-preferred-not-to-talk-about-it, grandson-in-law. “DO SOMETHING.”

“Ah. Yes, I’ll just, fetch the midwife then.”

“YOU WILL NOT-” but he was already gone. Not for the first time, Death lamented that the personification of time had no hourglass. At least, none that he could yet find. It didn’t help that Lobsang still struggled with the human aspect of his personification, though he had clearly reached a very particular accuracy on at least one occasion given the current situation. He turned back to look down at Susan.

“I hate him,” she sobbed. Death patted her fist awkwardly.

“I AM SURE THE WITCH WILL ARRIVE SOON.” 

As if she’d been summoned, Nanny Ogg swept into the room. She tossed a large bag onto the floor as she approached the bed, “Here we are then,” and set about freeing Death's robe from Susan's fingers, uttering a stream of meaningless chatter as another contraction struck. 

Lobsang appeared on the other side, tentatively reaching a hand out to touch Susan’s shoulder as the pain seemed to fade.

"I hate you," she said, softer than her previous declaration. Lobsang smiled and took her hand.

“That seems fair.”

"Well,” Death’s robe slipped free and Nanny tilted her head at him, “I expect you'll be wanting to wait in the hall for the rest of this."

"YES," he seized the opportunity. "YES. I WILL WAIT IN THE HALL." 

He fled the room, small skittering footsteps following quickly behind him.

"SNK. SNK. SNK."


End file.
